Serious Stuff

When I think of camp, I think about glitter, rainbows, sunshine, sugar, laughter, carefree joyful frolicking through fields of flowers. If you've read this blog for any amount of time, you know that camp actually involves a lot more dirt, crabbiness, and HR policies, but I rarely think about the serious stuff.

In September, Nurse J got sick. She thought it was just a cough and then thought it was bronchitis. Over the following months, she went to countless doctors, ended up in the hospital several times and eventually received a diagnosis of degenerative lung disease. She's on a million medications, oxygen, undergoing chemotherapy and is on a list for a lung transplant.

Every time I talk to her (which is multiple times per week), she is upbeat, laughing, asking for camp projects to keep her busy, joking and counting down until camp. She's very sick, but you wouldn't know by her attitude. I've only found out how serious it is because she will causally mention something and I will find myself, sometimes days later, asking, "wait, what was that about a lung transplant?"

I'm not sure if she is as upbeat and casual with everyone or if she is putting on a front for me, or maybe she's in denial and camp is thing she holds onto to keep her going. She is very open and honest when I ask questions and I know that what she is dealing with is incredibly serious. And yet despite knowing the seriousness, her attitude of "no worries! I'm coming to camp in a few months and everything will be fine" has been enough to distract me and keep me thinking that it's no big deal, everything is fine.

Today Nurse J went to the hospital for more tests. She's been struggling with solid food and speaking for a while, so the diagnosis of cancer of the esophagus (in addition to the lung disease) probably shouldn't have come as a shock. But once again, her email was casual, letting me know the doctors are hesitantly allowing her to put off more chemo for three months and that the time at camp will give her a break to find clarity to "decide if she will continue to fight this". I responded with, "what is the alternative to 'fighting'?"

Once again, I found myself thinking, "no big deal, it's gonna be fine". But the more I think about her words, I think, "wait, nothing about lung transplants, cancer and 'deciding whether or not to fight' is 'no big deal'". Smiles and telling me everything is fine has been convincing, but her upbeat attitude and her words don't match.

I'm not sure if she's in denial and she's hoping the glittery, carefree magic of camp will make everything better. Or if she knows there is no hope and she's wants to have one last hurrah in a place that she (and her son, who is the most important thing in her life) loves.

She is scheduled to arrive in a week. I'm waiting to figure out what's really going on until she's here. Deep down, I think I really believe camp is magical and being here will make her better and all of the serious stuff will be replaced by frolicking through fields of flowers. I know that innocence is probably ridiculous, but I'm holding onto hope for as long as I can.